


my heart in your hands

by 0neType



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Clothing Kink, Dom Sans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Ganz don't read this out loud what the fuck, Gentle Sex, Kissing, M/M, Praise Kink, Rough Fingering, Sans Remembers Resets, Sensitive bones, Soul Touching, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 06:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11458350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType
Summary: Papyrus dies, everything resets, and Sans remembers just enough to get real messed up over it.





	my heart in your hands

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmm i've been craving fellcest real bad these last few days and all of my friends are terrible enablers so this was the result B')

When Sans bursts into his room, it’s well past midnight and Papyrus is already halfway through his usual hours of sleep. Still, he’s nothing if not always alert, and he jolts awake in an instant, magic at the ready. Even half-awake, bone constructs form solid in his hand and it’s only when he notices that it’s Sans that he lets them dissipate. He blearily rubs at his sockets, quietening the roar of his magic back to a low hum.

“Sans, what the fuck are you doing?” He grouses, unused to being the one woken up in the middle of his rest.

He can’t see his brother’s face, dark as the room is, but he can make out Sans’ silhouette as he shuts the bedroom door behind him and briskly strides over to the bed. He clambers onto it, not a word spoken and Papyrus watches in a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. Sans kicks off his shoes and pulls off his jacket, before turning to face him, expression still shadowed.

Papyrus rolls his eyelights, “Was it really necessary to make so much noise if all you wanted was to sleep here—”

“Take off your clothes.”

Papyrus blinks at his brother in the darkness. There’s no way to read that as anything less than a demand and Papyrus suddenly finds himself inexplicably worried.

“Sans… what happened?”

“Take off your clothes, Papyrus.”

And maybe it’s weirder that there’s nothing sexual in that statement.

There’s a very specific set of actions Sans goes through when he wants him. Unlike Papyrus, who’s blunt and asks his brother exactly for what he wants when he wants it, Sans never seems to have the words. He’ll eye Papyrus over breakfast quietly, shift restlessly around him on the way to work, softly say goodbye as they part ways but never, ever outright ask Papyrus if it’s okay to touch him.

It’s always up to him to approach Sans at the end of the day. To tell him that he’s seen Sans watching and that he’s more than willing for whatever his brother has in mind. He huffs and pretends it’s a hassle but, if he’s being honest, it’s always worth it to see the flush that spreads over Sans’ face and the stutter that slips into his speech.

As if he doesn’t already know that Papyrus would give him anything he asked for.

(Or, maybe, precisely _because_ of that.)

But this, right now?

There’s no precedent for this.

He has no idea what’s going on.

There’s something foreboding in Sans’ tone; something strict and unarguable. It sends a shiver down Papyrus’s spine and an unexpected warmth to his face. He’s glad that it’s dark because he can feel his phalanges tremble as they come to the front of his sleeping shirt and start to work open the buttons. He can feel Sans’ gaze on him the entire time, unnerving him, and his bones only feel hotter each time his fingers slip uselessly against the plastic.

Sans sighs, heavy and impatient, “Here. Let me.”

And suddenly his brother is up in his space, filling in against him, broad even without his jacket to pad up his size. Sans’ phalanges work deftly to undress him, making quick work of his shirt and moving down to the waistband of his cotton pants. Papyrus feels like his soul is thudding hard enough to leave an impression against the inside of his ribcage, engraving his desire permanently into him. It takes all he has to not let it manifest in some awkward, ill-timed pulse of arousal.

He can’t help it. Not really.

Being bare with Sans’ hands running over him usually has different implications—a different purpose altogether. Whatever his brother is doing right now is far removed from it, he can tell from the frown on Sans’ face, but that doesn’t stop his body from reacting like it’s so used to. It doesn’t stop the soft friction of his pants being taken off from being construed as teasing or the way Sans’ phalanges scrape carelessly against his femurs from being torture in the best sort of way.

When at last his bones are open to the air, Papyrus presses back down against his sheets, body twitching with nervous energy. Sans peers down at him, searching, red eyelights bright in the dark of the room. His brother brings down a hand over his ribcage and stops just short of touching him.

“You’re always getting hurt…” Sans whispers, and there’s something choked in his voice that Papyrus can’t comprehend.

“I have a dangerous job, Sans.” He says, loud in comparison to how soft his brother was. But it doesn’t seem to matter because it’s like Sans doesn’t hear him anyway. Instead, his brother looks lost, cautiously brushing his phalanges against the scars—faded and new—on Papyrus’s chest.

“ _God_ ,” Sans breathes, “Why do you always do this to me, Pap?”

And before Papyrus can ask what he means, what on earth it is that’s made him act so unusually, Sans lets his hands drift up towards his neck and Papyrus instantly stills. That area of his body has always been particularly sensitive and Papyrus fights to hold back an embarrassing sound when Sans thumbs over his cervical vertebrae. There’s a distant look in his brother’s eyes, oblivious to what he’s doing to him, and Sans simply leans in closer to get a better angle. The press of his body is welcome to Papyrus’s heated bones, though Sans mostly supports his own weight, ever careful of his brother beneath him.

“Why do you _always_ make things so difficult?”

“Sans…” Papyrus says before trailing off, unsure of where to begin his line of questioning.

“Don’t you know what it does to me?” Sans continues, absently stroking one hand against the left side of his ribs while the first remains at tantalisingly at his neck, “Do you just not care?”

He’s affronted, even though he’s not sure what this is about, “Of course I care.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it.” his brother accuses, and his phalanges twitch sharply, digging into the soft cartilage between his bones.

Papyrus gasps at the feeling, the sudden intensity of the action catching him off-guard and ruining his careful control over himself. His soul manifests in a rush, gleaming silvery-white as it floats just above his ribcage. He flushes at the sight of it out in the open, red magic starting to slick its surface as his arousal quickly makes itself evident.

His brother, for his part, seems startled. As if only just realising the way his touch could have been riling Papyrus up. It’s almost gratifying to see the way a light flush of magic casts against his cheekbones, thought Papyrus is too frustrated to really enjoy the sight. Sans draws his hands back and Papyrus has to grit his teeth to keep from whining at the loss.

Then Sans shifts his weight off of Papyrus and gets off of the bed and he can’t help himself.

“ _Sans_.” He bites, pushing himself up on his elbows and ignoring the desperation in his voice.

His brother doesn’t answer him, suddenly shifting around in his room. He peers through the drawers on Papyrus’s nightstand before heading over towards the closet. Papyrus watches as he pulls the door open and starts sifting through the hangers inside. He’s just about to yell impatiently at his brother to come finish what he started when Sans pulls some fabric off a hanger and shuts the closet door, making his way back towards him.

“Here,” Sans says, climbing back onto the bed and pushing something red and familiar towards him, “Put this on.”

Papyrus blinks at his scarf, “What?”

“Put it on.” Sans insists, pushing it more firmly towards him.

He takes the red bundle from his brother, the slightest bit bewildered. He puts it on though, arching ever so slightly to make it easier to put on while still laying back. As he adjusts it comfortably around his neck, he catches Sans watching him, something hungry and hot in his gaze. Papyrus flushes, feeling shivery all over.

Somehow, he feels much more exposed wearing only his scarf and nothing else than he did when he was altogether bare.

“Happy?” He gripes, but Sans doesn’t respond, too busy moving back on top of him.

And it makes his words fall silent too, with Sans weight on top of him, solid and familiar. His brother leans over him, t-shirt dragging enticingly across his ribs and making Papyrus grip reflexively into the sheets to keep from shaking. Sans brackets him with his arms from either side, moving down until he can press his face into the side of Papyrus’s neck, breathing into the fabric of his scarf.

“Fuck, Boss…” Sans sighs, the words tickling against the bare parts of his vertebrae and making him squirm, “I’ve barely even touched you and you’re a mess.”

He wants to vocalise his protest but his soul is already dripping excess magic steadily down onto his ribs, slicking his bones and cooling them from their incessant internal heat so, really, his brother isn’t too far off.

Sans draws a hand up to his scarf, tugs on it enough to reveal a long expanse of bone—and Papyrus has to wonder why he’d insist it be put on when he’d wanted his neck uncovered anyways? —and laves his tongue over it. That’s enough to have Papyrus squirming in earnest, hot flush spreading the rest of the way over his bones, face flaming with mortification. Sans continues to nip at him, sharp teeth pricking the most sensitive points at his vertebrae and tongue dipping into the spaces in between.

“Sans…” He pants again, and this time there’s no way to hide the whine in it.

“Mm,” Sans hums at his side, the vibration of the sound against his neckbones wickedly alluring, “I’ve got you, bro.”

And then Sans _does_ have him, his soul gripped in his brother’s careful hand. Sans doesn’t even look at it, sockets still closed shut and his face buried in Papyrus’s shoulder. He just rubs his thumb firmly over the surface and that’s enough to have Papyrus tensing up against the sheets.

“Haa…” Papyrus exhales, the simple touch to his soul radiating out over his body with an intensity that’s impossible to ignore. It has his magic crackle wildly over his form before pooling in a thick liquid drip towards the center of his pelvis. He resists the urge to cross his legs, certain that his brother would just pull them apart again if he tried.

“Wish this didn’t have to end.” Sans murmurs, almost like he’s half-asleep, and Papyrus still can’t puzzle out that yearning in his words, distracted as he is, “Wish it could be like this forever.”

Another firm rub against the now rippling surface of his soul has Papyrus keening, shaking underneath his brother’s form. Sans might as well have him tied up for all that he wants to move and finds that he can’t. The pressure over his form is too intense, too much—an all-over sensation that he can’t escape no matter where he turns. He barely even notices it when Sans snakes his free hand down towards Papyrus’s pelvis, fingers working at the magic there skillfully.

And then.

Something bitter and caustic burns its way into Sans’ tone, “Wish you weren’t so fucking caught up in seeing the best in the worst people.”

The shift in mood is palpable and Sans’ grip on his soul tightens just enough to be distressing. Papyrus catches the briefest flash of something— _something so familiar_ —but then his brother abruptly lets go of his soul and pulls himself upright, towering over Papyrus in a way that he hardly ever does, short as he is. It’s all Papyrus can do not to whimper plaintively as his soul returns to its place underneath his chest, suddenly feeling bereft of all touch, starved in a way that his brother is usually so careful in avoiding.

“Wish you weren’t so obsessed with making everyone change their ways.” Sans goes on, one hand now roughly holding a femur to the side while the other works at his magic till it forms, dripping and wet.

Sans slips his phalanges into him, three at once, and even though he’s already slick the sudden intrusion feels like too much. Papyrus is suddenly blinking back tears at the stretch, reflexively squeezing down at the fingers inside of him even as his brother spreads them to work him open. His face burns, a swell of panic overtaking him at the aberrant way Sans is behaving, rougher than his brother ever is with him.

“Wish you cared enough about me not to fucking _get yourself killed._ ” Sans says and Papyrus doesn’t _get_ it. He doesn’t understand what Sans is saying. He has no idea what’s wrong with his brother, has no idea how to fix it and it’s striking an awful chord in his soul, a dissonance that he can’t quieten down.

“ _Over, and over, and **over**._ ”

The uncomfortable push of Sans’ phalanges inside of him quickly becomes pleasurable, his brother knowing exactly where to press to make him unfold. But Papyrus finds that he still can’t relax. Sans already knows that he can only handle pain in small amounts when they do this—not at all like his brother who sometimes begs Papyrus to hurt him even with tears already streaming down his face—and he’s always been the type to undershoot Papyrus’s limits if anything. So, he’s not afraid of getting hurt really, but there’s a tightness in his chest that he can’t ignore anyways.

“When you know,” Sans grits, thrusting his fingers roughly in and out, making Papyrus yelp and clench tighter around him, “When you _know_ that you’re the only reason I’m even—”

“ _Sans_.”

It escapes him, slips right out of his parted mouth in a breathy plea that immediately embarrasses him.

The thing is, it’s not even remotely close to a request for his brother to stop. They _have_ a safe word. A word that rarely sees any use since they’ve always been intimately aware of what they can handle with each other. It’s a safety net. And this is not it.

He’s not saying no. He’s not asking his brother to stop. He’s not telling him that it hurts more than he’s used to or that he’s uncomfortable and he’s _certainly_ not saying that he’s worried, but.

But.

There must be something in the way he says his brother’s name because Sans stops anyways.

“Shit,” Sans says, so quiet that Papyrus almost misses it, “Shit, Pap. God, what the fuck. I’m—”

And suddenly Sans pulls his fingers out of him with a wet squelch that makes Papyrus flush and groan and he’s wiping them off on his shorts and then he’s _backing away from him_ —

Papyrus pushes himself up, shooting a hand forward to grab onto his brother’s forearm. He opens his mouth to speak but Sans is already shaking his head, “Sorry, Boss. I-I don’t know what I was—I don’t—I’m really sorry, I—”

He doesn’t want to hear it.

He tugs hard on Sans’ arm, falling backwards into bed and bringing his brother back down on top of him. The pressure is heavy, Sans landing onto him with his full weight, but Papyrus finds that he doesn’t mind it. Not when they’re more important things to be concerned about, such as the guilty expression on his brother’s face.

Determined to wipe it away, Papyrus wraps his arms around his brother, drawing him in close. Sans fumbles at the sudden embrace, arms going back into a bracing position on either side of his body. He lets it linger for a few moments before moving his hands again, this time up underneath Sans’ t-shirt. He wanders up over his brother’s ribs before scraping with his bare claws against his scapulae. Sans shivers and groans, body untensing just enough that Papyrus welcomes that relief.

“Listen carefully, brother,” Papyrus says, voice low, “I’m going to be _very_ displeased if you leave me like this.”

Sans is staring at him, hanging onto his every word. It makes something primal in him inordinately pleased, and his body thrums with a fresh wave of arousal at the sight. He runs his tongue over his teeth, “You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

And there’s a second where his brother just looks at him, his expression open and unsure. Then, Papyrus squeezes his arms reassuringly around him and it’s like Sans’ entire form relaxes. A slow grin winds itself onto his brother’s face, sockets lidding as he readjusts his position over Papyrus.

“’Course not, Boss.” He whispers, backing up and reaching down to rub a thumb over the still wet folds of his conjured magic. He swipes the digit against his tongue, staring down at Papyrus in a way that makes magic rush to his cheekbones, burning radiantly and making him feel hot all over.

He watches as his brother slides his shorts down just enough to pull himself free and the sight of Sans’ dick damn near makes him groan. He tells himself he’s stronger than that though, even as he feels his legs start to tremble in anticipation as his brother strokes himself to fullness. Papyrus’s eyes stay fixed on Sans, his grip tightening on the sheets as his brother finally, _finally_ , leans over him, length in hand.

But instead of putting it in him like he wants, Sans sort of just… rubs it over him.

“What in the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Papyrus seethes, though he’s not sure it sounds as intimidating as he intended it to be with how his voice cracks in the middle.

Sans laughs lightly, still slicking himself up with Papyrus’s wetness, “You don’t know? Damn, Pap, we’ve been fucking for ages. I figured you’d at least know what sex is by now.”

“You absolute piece of—! I’m—!” Papyrus has to take a breath, not in least because the friction Sans is building is making his whole body tense up, “You _know_ what I mean, Sans.”

And maybe there’s a small part of his brother that believes in Mercy because instead of dragging it on like he usually would— _‘Can’t say I do, Boss.’_ —he just snickers, “You tellin’ me it doesn’t feel good?”

It _does_ feel good. It feels _great_.

Sans is big and thick and _heavy_ and just the weight of his cock resting against his pussy has Papyrus’s soul pounding with desire. So, when he _moves_ , it’s that much better. In fact, every time Sans’ dick slips against his clit, Papyrus has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning. He gets wetter as his brother rubs over his swollen lips, dipping shallowly in with the head of his cock but never pushing properly in.

And that’s just it. That’s—

That’s what he _wants_.

So, Papyrus knows what this is. He _knows_ that Sans is waiting to hear him say it.

“Fuck you.” He bites and instantly regrets it because Sans immediately stops moving.

“Yeah?” His brother gives him a mock-innocent look, “You wanna trade places?”

Papyrus rolls his eyelights at him, “You’re not getting out of this, you lazy fuck.”

And with that he pushes his hips down viciously, hoping to nudge Sans’ dick where he wants it. Unfortunately, his brother is prepared for exactly such an outcome and he grabs each of Papyrus’s femurs in hand and ruins the momentum. He’s just getting ready to cuss Sans out for it when his brother spreads his legs further apart, making Papyrus yelp. Sans holds him open like that, his pussy dripping wet and on full display while he just stares down at him, unaffected.

“You’re confusing me, bro,” Sans drawls, shifting his hips forward every so slightly and brushing the head of his cock against his hole, “You want this or not?”

Papyrus shivers, face warm, “S-Sans…”

“We could stop, if you want,” Sans shrugs, “M’sorta tired anyways.”

He _would_ too.

It’s not like Papyrus doesn’t know how Sans feels about him. He already knows that his brother would do and _has_ done unspeakable things to keep him safe. But. He also knows that his brother is just enough of an asshole to follow through on his threat.

So, he sucks it up, hides his face as best as he can in the pillows and murmurs, “I want you to put your dick in me, Sans.”

The room is quiet after Papyrus speaks, not even a shift of cloth to be heard. He’s almost afraid that his brother is going to make him say it again. But, blessedly, Sans only laughs; a soft huff of a thing, “All you had to do was ask.”

Papyrus tilts his head away from the pillow just in time to see Sans bring his femur a little closer before he dips his head and kisses it, gaze coming up to lock with his. The whole display has his soul squeeze in such a sweet ache that Papyrus can’t even fault himself for the whine that follows it. He’d hide his face again, but he can’t look away as Sans continues to kiss his way down Papyrus’s leg before stopping at his pelvis and drawing back.

This time, when Sans leans down over him, Papyrus gasps in pleasure, his brother’s cock pushing into him at last.

“Fuck.” Papyrus groans, overwhelmed by how full he feels after being teased for so long.

The previous preparation worked him nice and open for his brother but as Sans continues to push in, burying himself fully into Papyrus’s warmth, he can’t help but scrabble at the sheets a little in an effort to stabilise himself. If his brother notices his embarrassing display, he doesn’t mention it, far more focused in slowly building up a rhythm with his thrusts. He still has Papyrus’s legs in hand, one femur thrown up over his shoulder for ease.

It’s all Papyrus can do to hold himself back from moaning as his brother picks up the pace, slamming in and out of him with thick, wet sounds that ring inside his skull. Papyrus is already ridiculously close, the fingering from earlier and the teasing from just now having left him a few scant feet from the finish line. It certainly doesn’t help that Sans lets go of one leg and brings that hand down to rub circles around his clit either.

The sensation has Papyrus gasping and he clenches tight around his brother.

“Ahh…” Sans groans, “You’re… you’re so good, Pap.”

And it sounds like a dozen other things Sans has said to him in similar situations; sounds like nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Except.

“Y-you’re always looking out for others. Always making sure assholes who cross the line get what’s coming to them,” Sans sounds like he’s in awe, a reverent quality to his words that Papyrus rarely ever hears, “You’re s-so _good_.”

He blinks, confused, a new warmth running through him at Sans’ word, “What… what are you…?”

Sans leans up at best as he can from his position, has to pull out a little to do it and Papyrus can’t help the whine that rises in the back of his conjured throat because of it. He cups the side of Papyrus’s face with one hand and strokes it with a thumb, “You’re always willing to see the best in people and always willing to help them change. You’re so fucking kind and caring even though none of these bastards deserve it.”

“I—” His soul feels like bursting in his chest. He’s warm all over. He feels, absurdly, like he both wants to hide and bask in this forever, “This… this is hardly the time—”

There’s a flash of that distant stare in Sans’ eyes again and his brother continues like he hasn’t heard Papyrus’s weak protest at all, “And you know what? I wouldn’t change it.”

Then, suddenly. Sans is gripping tight onto his scarf and Papyrus can only stare as he tugs it loose and throws it up and over them. It drapes them as it falls, hides them away from everything else. He can just barely make out Sans face, their eyelights the only true source of light to guide them by. It feels like a secret, the two of them tucked beneath the red fabric of his scarf like this.

Sans is still looking at him, staring with something heartbreaking in his eyes that Papyrus doesn’t know how to respond to.

“Despite everything,” Sans whispers, and Papyrus tunes out every sound save for his brother’s voice and the pounding of his own soul, “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

And then—

then Sans surges forward and _kisses_ him and—

and it’s _ridiculous_ , it’s—it’s _childish_ and _silly_ —

But kissing Sans… kissing him while pressed together underneath the safety of his scarf—

Papyrus can’t remember the last time he was so _happy_.

So, he grips tight onto his brother, balls his fists into the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and continues to kiss him even as Sans resumes thrusting into him and the scarf falls loose from the repetitive motion. They stayed connected, sockets shut and bodies close and Sans pushes into him a few more times before Papyrus is keening into his mouth and clenching around his dick, legs shaking with exertion. Sans isn’t far behind, and Papyrus feels his brother fuck him through his orgasm and push over into his own, spilling into him.

It’s too much and it’s not enough and Papyrus is still kissing Sans, their tongues entwined, until his brother breaks away from him with a gasp.

“Shit, bro.” Sans says, ever eloquent, but Papyrus agrees with the sentiment behind it anyways.

Of course, being the monster that he is, Sans stays flopped onto of Papyrus, sighing as he gets comfortable against his brother chest. Papyrus supposes he should at least be thankful he pulled out before settling against him, though he really does wish they could clean up first. But then, Sans grins up at him and his soul feels tight with emotion and he figures he can handle a little mess for now, gross as it is.

But first.

“What was all that about?” Papyrus asks, as carefully as he can manage.

“Huh…” Sans frowns, “You know I… can’t really remember.”

And Papyrus knows his brother well enough to search his face and know without a doubt that he’s telling the truth.

Nevertheless, “You seemed fairly upset.”

“Yeah, I… I-I think it was a dream?” Sans winces, like trying to recall it hurts him, “A nightmare, actually.”

They’re quiet.

Considering.

“… you got hurt.”

Papyrus grips tighter onto his brother, “I’m fine.”

Sans snorts, “Obviously.”

But it must still be reassuring because Sans sinks in against him, arms wrapping around his bare chest with an undeniable softness. They remain like that, silent and thoughtful, for a handful of moments. Enough that Papyrus thinks that maybe his brother has dozed off. So, he moves in place and gently shifts Sans off of him.

It’s as he’s rearranging the sheets and dragging his blanket over top of both of them that Sans speaks up again; a quiet, sleepy sort of speech, “Hey, Pap…?”

“Mmm?” He hums, moving back in beside him.

Sans turns and presses close to him, body curled up small and head resting against his chest, “Don’t, uh… don’t die on me, yeah?”

Papyrus feels like his soul constricts and he resists the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull his brother straight into his arms. Instead, he curves himself in a bracket around Sans, one arm coming up to rest over his side. His brother appreciates it, if the way he sighs is anything to go by.

And it’s like that—entwined in bed with Sans, arms safely around each other—that he makes his promise.

 

 

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...  
> ...  
>  i love them so much you guys hhhhhhhHHHHHHHH


End file.
